Growing Up In Sleeping Bags

I grew up in a sleeping bag, and until recently I could sleep on anything.

A jungle hammock strung between two trees at the top of a hill in Michigan. A back yard in Alabama waiting for Christmas morning. In the Michigan woods in a canvas Army tent on canvas Army cots. In a basement in Illinois with the concrete floor under me. On the floor in a cabin in a holler in the woods somewhere in Kentucky.

Whenever we gathered, we gathered in numbers. And usually our numbers were greater than the bed count of the house. So these gatherings involved sleeping bags strewn hither and yon. And we had to sleep on what we were given.

And this was all fine by me -- until recently.

It's a funny thing about the mid-40s. It's funny how what used to be ok isn't so fine, anymore: sore knees, aching joints, fuzzier vision, and a hurting back in the morning.

It's a funny thing (really).

So it is with some pride that I share with you now the latest member of our family: a Queen-sized, double-stuff mattress that makes it possible again for me to get out of bed in the morning with no need for that hobble or that limp or that oh-my-aching-back hand on my hip.

I might have grown up in a sleeping bag, but I don't sleep in one, anymore.

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